


Shake Hands, Here's Luck, Good-Bye

by asparkofgoodness



Series: Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Body Swap, Hands, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Questions, Shaky Hands, Waiting, Whumptober 2019, shaking hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 16:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparkofgoodness/pseuds/asparkofgoodness
Summary: A young mother walked past, arm guiding a girl in a bright pink dress through a crowd of people waiting patiently for the bus.  A man answered his mobile with a curt “Yeah?  What’d he say?”  A dog barked.  Crowley sat in a body that wasn’t his – never had been, no matter how much he’d ached for it to be, no matter all the times he’d almost asked if it could be, the questions dying in the pause between inhale and sound – and waited.  The soft hands that weren’t his trembled.





	Shake Hands, Here's Luck, Good-Bye

"Shake hands, we shall never be friends, all's over;

I only vex you the more I try.

All's wrong that ever I've done or said,

And nought to help it in this dull head:

Shake hands, here's luck, good-bye.

But if you come to a road where danger

Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share,

Be good to the lad that loves you true

And the soul that was born to die for you,

And whistle and I'll be there."

\- A.E. Housman

A young mother walked past, arm guiding a girl in a bright pink dress through a crowd of people waiting patiently for the bus.A man answered his mobile with a curt “Yeah?What’d he say?”A dog barked.Crowley sat in a body that wasn’t his – never had been, no matter how much he’d ached for it to be, no matter all the times he’d almost asked if it could be, the questions dying in the pause between inhale and sound – and waited.The soft hands that weren’t his trembled.

A refrain with every heartbeat: _where is he?Where is he?Where is he?_The clock across the square reminded him he’d been sitting on this bench for half an hour, as if he needed reminding.As if he couldn’t feel the death of each second reverberate in his core like a struck church bell.He crossed his (shorter, fleshier, warmer, not his) legs, uncrossed them, tapped his foot on the pavement until the sound drove him mad._Where is he?_Crowley stilled, internally reaching out into the air around him, searching for any angelic traces and coming up empty and shivering in the late summer sunlight.

Aziraphale had made it sound so simple and so clever, but all Crowley could hear now was that same golden voice saying “_We’re not friends,” _saying “_The Almighty will fix it,” _saying “_It’s over” _and being so incredibly, thankfully wrong.Hadn’t he assured Crowley this plan would work with that same voice?

In times like these, when it runs wild, imagination is no blessing.Behind his glasses, Crowley’s eyes darted back and forth, surveying the park, but nothing he saw could push away flashes of what might have delayed Aziraphale.Every scenario fed panic into his already knotted stomach. 

Aziraphale’s face falling as they discovered his secret.His panicked eyes as they dragged him up to Heaven and his proper punishment.The swell of the Hellfire as it engulfed him, no chance for a goodbye.Or his mouth twisting, brow furrowed in pain as Hell got creative, toying with him as a cat does a mouse before the merciful kill.

How stupid they had been to bet on holy water.How selfish, how cowardly he had been to take the easy role – of course Heaven would be direct, right to the quick and absolute point – and let Aziraphale risk unimaginable torment for him.Stories circulated down there, despite the utter lack of collegial spirit.Crowley knew what they were capable of.Yet he had let Aziraphale don his corporation, weak and dented armor, and face them on the assumption Hell would operate mercifully.

Still no angelic presence anywhere near him.He fought the urge to bolt, nervous energy vibrating through his whole being, desperate for an outlet, but he forced himself to stay seated on the uncomfortable bench.A tiny hope within him begged him to wait.If things were going according to plan, just slower, then rushing in now could ruin everything. 

_“Do you trust me?” _Aziraphale had asked him last night, eyes alive with hope reborn. 

_“Of course” _had been Crowley’s response, _“since Eden” _hovering unspoken in the silence after.He would trust him to return, then.

Desperate for a distraction, he looked down at Aziraphale’s hands, fingers drumming nervously on Aziraphale’s thighs and slowing to a stop as Crowley concentrated.These hands.Countless times before, he had studied them in motion: gently cradling a wine glass, swiftly pulling a miracle down from above, nimbly plucking a grape from the bunch or a book from the hands of a would-be customer, nervously clasping at each other when met with discord or dilemma. 

Three times, he had touched them, before last night.

Once, in a damp, tiny Irish village, to seal an arrangement that would earn a capital A as time went by.This century, like the one before it, had promised to be full of odd orders from his superiors.Why Ireland, and why this particular assignment, Crowley had no idea, but he suspected it had something to do with the endless battle for control of the island.Fine, he would do his job; he had falsified the last nine reports he’d sent down, after all, so it was overdue.After a long afternoon of trudging around the town, planting ideas in the narrow minds of the frustratingly stubborn locals, he called it a night and found the one place for miles that would feed and host travelers. 

One glance around the small dining room and he realized why the afternoon had been so difficult: seated at a table by himself, pushing a chunk of meat across his plate with a slight grimace, was Aziraphale.He smothered the rebellious part of him that jumped excitedly at the sight.Grabbing his drink a bit too forcefully out of the tavern-keeper’s hand, he stormed over to the angel’s table and collapsed into the seat across from him.

“Crowley!”Aziraphale’s eyes flashed with pleased surprise.“What are you…”Silent, Crowley twisted his face in mock confusion as he watched Aziraphale realize just what he was doing here.“Hang on.No, you can’t be… Crowley,” he said, tone growing stern, setting down his fork, “I have spent the past three days here convincing all of them–”

“Yep, and I undid all that in, hmm, about six hours.”

Aziraphale huffed, angrily tossing his napkin on the table.“This is–”

“Ridiculous?”

“Yes, quite so.It’s almost as if–”

“Neither of us needed to come at all?”With a smirk and a raise of one eyebrow, he leaned back in his chair.Checkmate.

Aziraphale’s mouth hung open for a moment, then snapped shut.Crowley let him think.He knew the angel’s mind was running through the usual objections and worries.Crowley had heard them all already and would hear them all again before the evening ended, listening and countering, point-for-point, confident he would wear Aziraphale out: he would agree this time. 

When he finally extended his hand, the pale light of early sunrise was shining through the window, illuminating Aziraphale’s curls from behind.He looked tired, mildly intoxicated, and conflicted.“Fine,” he sighed, “fine, but we shall draw up terms and sign them, and it cannot happen often, and…”Crowley’s joy at winning must have shown on his face, for Aziraphale let a hint of a smile form on his own, shaking his head slightly.“No need to look so smug, now,” and a warm hand met his, squeezing just enough so Crowley knew he wouldn’t back out.Thousands of years of running into each other in nearly every region of this planet and this was the first time they had touched.Marveling at their joined hands, Crowley tried to map and memorize each line, each swell and fall of flesh, but after a second, Aziraphale was pulling back, replacing his hand in his lap with a shy smile. 

Centuries would pass before they touched again.Crowley would bury the memory of that handshake, rarely allowing himself to revisit it for fear of lingering too long, losing himself in his longing.The more time that passed, the more the humans around them became touch-shy, no longer greeting with kisses or holding friends’ hands.Somehow, Crowley sensed he was sliding farther away from those hands, so he walled up the memory deep within himself and let it rest in darkness.

The second time, the ground beneath his aching feet still shook as he held out his hand.Sirens wailed.The city fell to panic around them.For all of his bravado, he felt as if he could tumble over, too, with one false step amongst the rubble.Seeing Aziraphale again after so long had frozen his breath in his chest, filled his veins with a baffling, icy mix of joy, desire, and tension.He willed his hand steady as Aziraphale reached for the bag. 

He had planned the rescue down to the church’s coordinates and the exact second the bomb would drop, but he never could have planned for this: a finger gently settling on his thumb, remaining there just for a moment as Aziraphale stared at him with stunned affection._Improvise, _he told himself, _say_ _something clever, then get out._If he hadn’t forced himself to walk away, biting his tongue, he would have surely drowned in the warm blue waters of the angel’s eyes, confessing everything as he sunk deeper than he thought was possible, and so he walked away to wait by the Bentley on safer, solid ground.

The third time, the taste of vanished wine, bitter and dry, still lay on his tongue as he spoke.Perched on Aziraphale’s couch, glasses discarded somewhere among the piles of books, Crowley waited yet again for Aziraphale to surrender to his sharp and patient logic.If he failed, all of this would burn away to ashes. 

When listing all that Aziraphale would miss if Armageddon came, Crowley had purposefully omitted any mentions of himself and their time together, careful not to cross more than an occasional toe over that line between them.If Crowley himself had needed convincing, all anyone would have had to say was Aziraphale’s name.Whatever it would take, he was ready to give, if it meant keeping evenings like these, when the wine and conversation smoothed the tension out of Aziraphale’s shoulders and Crowley could make him laugh the kind of laugh that wrinkled the corners of his eyes.

Finally, Aziraphale leaned forward and, for the second time, held out his hand for Crowley to shake.A new Arrangement, one that allowed them to work, well, not together exactly, but parallel to each other.Despite his hesitation, Aziraphale’s agreement spoke volumes._I’ll risk it_, the handshake said._I will tell myself Heaven couldn’t possibly object, though I know better.I will help a demon subvert the plans of much higher authorities.I will, because… _and that is where the words became indecipherable in the white noise of self-doubt.What he could make out would be enough to sustain Crowley’s hope.Aziraphale’s fingers curled around Crowley’s hand, and Crowley allowed himself a slow smile.Aziraphale agreed this was worth saving.With that test passed, Crowley had been confident the rest would fall in line and they would soon save their world together.

Three times in six-thousand years, they had touched, and then the scheduled Armageddon arrived in a burst of terror and flames.When the chaos had calmed a little, the two of them hovered awkwardly around Crowley’s cold flat, still on edge, thinking.Suddenly, Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. He explained his idea to a reluctant Crowley, and they had shaken hands once, then again and again, practicing.Crowley let himself hope again, just a little.This could work. 

_And it has to_, Crowley thought as he checked the park again, now that he knew these trembling hands like his own.He longed to know them in new and different ways. To hold them in his own for more than seconds. To feel their soft touch on his cheek or jaw. To watch them fumble with his belt and grab fistfuls of his sheets.If this worked, he would be reckless enough to ask for all of it.If they truly earned a future without the threat of the world ending, without surveillance from above and below, then he would let the questions pour free from his mouth like exhaled smoke.

Blue eyes snapped over to a man in a tan coat crossing the street.Not him.Of course it wasn’t, as he’d be wearing Crowley’s body, long limbs in black. Easy to forget they’d traded and he shouldn’t be searching for white and tan and tartan.

Unsteadily, the pulse beat on. _Where is he?_The tension in Crowley’s chest felt like his ribs lay in a vice that tightened with each tick of the clock’s minute hand._Where is he?_ He looked down again at the hands in his lap and a sickening thought struck him: _what if he never comes?_What, then, would Crowley do, left within Aziraphale’s body?

Dread gnawed away at his core as he imagined walking out of the park alone, unlocking his flat with a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers, looking in the mirror and seeing Aziraphale looking back at him, knowing he was staring down the ghost of his best friend.He knew he would not survive like that, empty and haunted, for long.There had to be some holy water left in the puddle on his floor.If fate had any semblance of kindness after all of this–

A flash of ember-red in the corner of his vision. A jerk of his head, and the vice-grip of his chest slipped open a little and a jittery warmth bloomed and filled that space. Bizarre, to watch yourself walk toward you, gait all wrong — _he must have given up the act; he must think he’s not being watched_ — and smile too easily, for a moment, upon recognition. Crowley sat up arrow-straight on the bench, doing his best imitation, and watched his own face brighten as Aziraphale held back a laugh. It had worked. Somehow, it had worked.

And then Aziraphale sat down next to him, and Crowley did not turn his head to look, but he felt Aziraphale tilt his body, stretch out his limbs, just as he always did. His whole being hummed with a happiness Crowley had never felt before. Soon, they would shake hands again, energies mingling for a moment before returning to their correct corporations, and there would be lunch and laughter and champagne and Crowley would work up the courage, finally, to ask. (_May I reach for your hands with my unsteady ones? May I show you just how much I worship your smile, your skin? May I study you, learn you by touch?May I love you, finally, in the open and out loud?_) And Aziraphale, sensing the freedom of their future stretched before them, would whisper _yes _and _yes _and _yes_ to every question.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Whumptober 2019 Day 1 prompt: shaky hands.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, let me know with a kudos or comment, and follow me on Tumblr as [thetunewillcome](https://thetunewillcome.tumblr.com/) for more _Good Omens_ fun.


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